Chapter Text
Harwin sprints from the River Gate barracks, does not bid farewell to Oswald, and does not check to see if Bentley is following. He does not even hand his horse over to the stable boy or change his dirtied cloak or prepare what he wants to say once he arrives.
His thoughts are consumed by only Rhaenyra, and nothing more. Her wellbeing, her health, if she has called for him and is wondering where he is. His mind runs wild, his heart ready to jump out of his chest.
The echo of Rhaenyra’s pained cry accosts Harwin’s ears from as far as their courtyard, her voice growing louder and louder as he races closer, boots propelling him forward. By the time he arrives at their shared apartments, Harwin is greeted by agonised noises petering out to pained gasps.
The men standing guard—faceless and nameless in his panic, men he may have known for years—are pale-faced and nervous, shifting their weight from side to side. Harwin understands the sentiment.
They open the doors before he can reach for the doorknob. The cries dwindle to silence.
“Rhaenyra?” he breathes, his eyes darting around the solar for a mere glimpse of her. “Rhaenyra!”
There are a handful of midwives waiting for him, each under Alys’ thrall and paid handsomely with Harwin’s coin. When he makes to step towards the bedchamber, they step in his path, silently denying him entry to his own wife.
“Ser,” one brave woman starts. “Lady Alys said to—”
“I will not be separated from my own wife!” Harwin roars, rage barely held in clenched fists at his side. The flinch and scuttle back to avoid his anger. Any other day and he might regret his outburst, but not today. “Remove yourselves, or I will make you.”
“You’re acting like a brute.” Alys steps out from the bedchamber, her simple linen apron stained. She is followed by a noise cut off behind her. The sight of her apron and the sound of his wife turns Harwin’s stomach. “What would your mother think?”
“Alys—Aunt. Please. Please, do not bar my entrance,” he pleads, sidestepping the midwives to crowd into Alys’ space. He towers over her, and although it will curdle his stomach later, he will use it to his advantage now. “I must be by Rhaenyra’s side. I cannot stand idly by while she is in pain.”
“Take a rest and have something to eat,” Alys says, and for a moment Harwin thinks she dares to order him about until her midwives hurry to leave under his sharp gaze. “I will handle my brute of a nephew.”
Once the room is empty but for the two of them, he makes for the bedchamber again.
Alys steps in his way.
“Harwin,” she scolds. “This is unseemly.”
“Unseemly?” he chokes. “My wife is in labour and you command me to stay away like I mean nothing to her. She needs me.”
Alys reaches up to cup his cheek like a mother would, with affection and derision in equal measure. Her hands are stained with blood, and the scent of copper fills his nose. He wonders if she is wiping his wife’s own blood on his flesh.
“Harwin,” she says softly, gently. “Your wife is going through this because of you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut so he need not look into her cruel and unwavering gaze.
“Be that as it may,” he forces out, “I placed my cloak over her shoulders and swore to be her protector. I cannot let her fight this alone.”
“My sweet boy,” Alys coos and strokes where his jaw is clenched tight. “This is a woman’s battle. She needs no protector now, only the guiding hands of us women.”
“I would not get in the way,” Harwin pleads, his last weapon when all else has failed.
“You are getting in the way now.” Alys’ voice gains a hard edge, and Harwin is momentarily cowed in place and resigned to his fate.
Until he hears noise from the bedchamber.
“Harwin?”
He runs into the room, his aunt be damned.
He isn’t sure what he expected. Blood and chaos, his wife half dead. His worst nightmares come to life.
Instead, he finds Rhaenyra sitting up in the middle of their featherbed, eyes wide and alert, no evidence of pain on her face except for a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the winter chill in the air. Her long hair has been braided back, and she wears the same nightgown he left her in that morn. Despite his fears, she does not look like she is dying.
“Harwin, did you scare my midwives?” she scolds.
He collapses to his knees at her bedside. “Rhaenyra.”
“Did you?”
He grasps her hand in his own and presses it to his lips. He feared the worst during the ride over, every nightmare coming to life behind his eyes. To see her now, to touch her skin, is a balm he did not anticipate but appreciates all the same.
“Only a little,” he admits, racing heart finally slowing. “I will apologise. Later.”
She smiles tiredly at him. “Good. They’ve been very helpful so far, and I would hate to repay their kindness with cruelty and risk their loyalty.”
“It is coin, not kindness, which ensures their loyalty, Princess,” Alys says. “But they have been bought for now. When you decide to have your next babe, I will find a new batch.”
Harwin feels the shiver down his spine at the implication of his aunt’s words, that these women are trustworthy only because someone else did not get to them first.
“How are you?” Harwin asks rather than voice his thoughts, holding her hand tight. He wants to do more, to climb into the bed with her and hold her and steal any discomfort, but he is certain that would be more hindrance than help—and impossible besides—and tries to content himself at her bedside.
“I am alright,” is Rhaenyra’s slow response. “It is early yet.”
“What happened? I was only gone for the morning.”
He had hoped to be there when she felt the first stirrings, but she practically pushed him out the door when he mentioned possibly seeing Oswald today. He had a mind to remain even with her complaints, but left after all. He should have stayed.
“I stood to dress after breakfast when I felt a rush of water,” Rhaenyra explains, the light flush on her cheeks the only sign of embarrassment. “It didn’t feel normal, like when I usually use the privy. Alys was not far, although I wonder if I worried my guards terribly when I called for her. I was very loud.”
“They were very pale when I arrived,” Harwin says, but envies them. They were there for her when he was not. “When did this happen?”
Rhaenyra looks to Alys, who is busy folding a stack of linens.
“Two hours ago,” Alys says idly.
“Two hours?” Harwin echoes. “Why was I not called earlier?”
Two hours ago he was still in the Red Keep training with the squires. He could have been here in minutes at Rhaenyra’s side, fetching her whatever she wished, carrying her to bed, braiding her hair back…
“You shouldn’t be here now,” Alys mutters under her breath.
Harwin goes to retort—because what could she mean by that?—but is stopped by a Rhaenyra squeezing his hand harder than she has before.
When he turns back to her, he finds her face scrunched up and her eyes squeezed shut, clearly in a great deal of pain.
“Rhaenyra?” Harwin gasps, standing quickly, hovering over her.
Alys takes vigil on her other side, but does not seem frightened. She takes Rhaenyra’s other hand, closes her own eyes, and remains silent.
“Alys, what is—?”
“Be quiet,” Rhaenyra hisses between clenched teeth. Harwin obeys.
After what seems like a lifetime, Rhaenyra finally relaxes. Her body unclenches, face smoothing out. She breathes deeply but steadily, the ordeal apparently over.
“What was that?” Harwin asks shakily.
“The princess has only just begun her labours,” Alys explains, mopping Rhaenyra’s forehead with a damp cloth. “Her pains are twenty minutes apart. We still have a ways to go.”
Rhaenyra groans, but it is less one of pain and more of annoyance. “Please stop reminding me. I would like to stay stupid for a while yet.”
“And Gerardys?” Harwin asks, glancing at Alys who merely rolls her eyes at his ignorance.
“Maesters are not useful in the slightest during labour,” Alys says, nose turned up. “What would a celibate man know of a woman’s labouring body?”
“He was called earlier when my waters first broke,” Rhaenyra explains, ignoring Alys’ complaints. “He told me to time my pains, and that he would return shortly.”
“And take over,” Alys sniffs, “as men are like to do.”
“Maester Gerardys is not like that.”
“All men are like that,” Alys drawls. “A metal chain changes nothing.”
“How many times have you experienced… that?” Harwin asks, baffled and concerned in equal measure. “The timing business?”
Rhaenyra shrugs tiredly. “I cannot remember. A dozen? It has blended together.”
And Harwin was witness to only the one.
“That time was longer,” Alys says quietly, almost to herself.
“It felt longer,” Rhaenyra admits, squeezing Harwin’s hand. He squeezes back, wishing he could do more. “It’s normal though, right?”
Alys nods, but seems distracted. Harwin tries not to let his worry mount, and instead focuses on speaking to Rhaenyra to distract her from the discomfort.
He tells her of his morning training the squires, then his visit to Oswald. She is pleased with him for his steps taken to make amends, but when she begins to pry further, Harwin must admit his folly.
“I cut our meeting short and rode back from the city when Bentley told me you were in labour,” he admits sheepishly, now knowing there was no need to rush quite so fiercely.
“My hero,” Rhaenyra teases, squeezing his hand again, this time with what he can only interpret as reassurance.
The midwives eventually return, Septa Lily close at their heels. She gives Harwin a reassuring nod, but it does little to assuage his fears. The line of midwives in their red gowns has only served to give life to Harwin’s imagination once again. A bad omen, perhaps. Stranger’s wives come to steal Harwin’s own away.
His intuition proves correct when Rhaenyra experiences another pain, this time longer and more painful. It is fast on the heels of the previous one, a fact which seems to concern Alys who sends one of the midwives out once again.
“Harwin, I believe it time for you to depart,” Alys says without fanfare in her blunt, no nonsense tone.
For a moment, Harwin flounders. He glances to Alys and then back to Rhaenyra, the former is like the stone and the latter is still recovering.
“I will be right outside the door,” Harwin promises, adrift and unknowing. This is not his place, and he himself requested Alys here to be at Rhaenyra’s side… He should not argue, even if he wishes to. “I will not leave the solar. Not for anything.”
Rhaenyra smiles. “I know you won’t,” she says fondly, if tiredly. “I love you.”
He does not want to leave this room. His mind and his heart are urging him to stay, and yet…
“Alys, I think I should st—”
His aunt’s grip brings him up short, wicked sharp nails digging into his arm and threatening to draw blood. Harwin does not care. Not when Rhaenyra suffers far worse.
“You brought me here for a reason,” Alys murmurs, quiet but no less dangerous. “You dragged me from Harrenhal into this pit of vipers so I may aid your wife. I guided you and your sisters into this world safely, as I have for countless others. Allow me to do my job, Harwin. Allow me to help her.”
Harwin is incapable of argument. In this, what Harwin wants is irrelevant, and the health of Rhaenyra and the babe is paramount. It is agony to realise, but surely not comparable to Rhaenyra’s own battle.
“Harwin is going to wait in the solar, Princess,” Alys says, tone brooking no argument. “The childbed is no place for a man.”
Harwin wants to argue, and by the furrow of her brow, Rhaenyra does too. But what do they know about childbirth in the face of Alys Rivers?
“I love you, too,” Harwin croaks. “If you need me—”
“I will call,” Rhaenyra promises.
He kisses her gently upon her perfect lips and holds her hand until the very last moment. He then steps outside of the bedchamber, and the very last thing he sees is Alys Rivers’ stern face.
Then Harwin is alone in the solar. It is Rhaenyra’s solar in truth, not his, not yet. It is their apartments by the laws of man, but these rooms have belonged to Rhaenyra long before Harwin said his vows, a fact which is more apparent than ever as he stands in the middle of this large, cold room without the woman who makes it a home. A cloak over her shoulders does not grant him ownership any more than years spent guarding the doors do. At this moment, he is little more than a guest, and a useless one at that.
Harwin does not go far, for if Rhaenyra asks, then he must be ready to present himself, for whatever use.
With little else to do, Harwin takes stock of the solar. There are remnants of Rhaenyra in the room, small reminders which only serve to drive the dagger deeper into his heart.
Her inkwell sits open on her desk, a letter to Lady Laena half finished. He sees the words dragon and egg and son etched in her looping scrawl, but does not read further. She will continue once she has completed her labour, he hopes. He does not want to have to finish it for her, for his handwriting is abysmal.
Her robe has been draped over her favourite armchair, discarded after their breakfast that morning. He slipped it free of her body himself then kissed each smooth, unblemished shoulder before departing for the day.
Morning tea sits on the small table by the window, ready with a jug of honeyed milk and small pastries. He was to return to the solar after his meeting, but time got away from him in the training yard, and then later when he visited Oswald.
Had he returned when he said he would, perhaps he would have been present when Rhaenyra went into labour. Perhaps he would have had more time with her, holding her hand and supporting her through the early moment of her labour. Instead, he lost track of time and abandoned his duties and now he is barred from his own wife in her time of need.
White hot self-hatred floods him with an almighty roar. His ears rush and his vision goes dark. He has failed her, failed their child before he has even been borne. What kind of father is he to be?
“Fuck!” Harwin tips the table over in a crash, and the contents go flying. Plates and cups and milk spill onto the stone floors, but he does not care. Let his surroundings reflect his turmoil, let everyone witness his unhappiness.
A hardier midwife pokes her head out from the bedchamber to level him a glare, but it is not her ire which stills him, but the heart-wrenching cry of his wife.
“Lady Alys says you ought to keep it down,” the midwife scolds once Rhaenyra’s screams have petered off. “Else she’ll find some knight big enough to take you away.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, and the doors to his beloved are barred once more.
Immediately, shame creeps up his neck. He is throwing a tantrum like an unruly, selfish child, and not the father he is to be.
Chastened, Harwin settles. He picks up after himself the best he can, although a servant will need to clean the worst of the mess and Harwin is wroth to let an unknown figure inside, so close to Rhaenyra.
Some time later, there is a brusque knock on the solar doors before they are unceremoniously opened. Maester Gerardys shuffles inside, Bentley close behind. The squire peers inside warily, as if frightened to be greeted by the sight of the crown princess in active labour.
“Ser Harwin,” the maester greets easily, bowing casually as he enters the room. He has a basket draped over one arm, clearly returning from his study. “Are you well? You appear flushed.”
“Well enough,” Harwin says, ushering him in before grabbing Bentley by the scruff and tugging him in, too.
“I can go get a calming draught if you—”
“Please,” Harwin interrupts, dragging a hand down his face. “See to Rhaenyra. Do not concern yourself with me.”
Gerardys chuckles, but does as he is told. “No need to fret, ser. Labour is no sprint,” he says before disappearing into the bedchamber behind the midwife.
“Fuck the gods,” Harwin groans. It is as if none but he seems to feel the weight of this moment, everyone else treating it as if it were any woman giving birth to any child and not Rhaenyra and their babe, not the crown princess and her heir and Harwin’s world.
“Come now, ser. You cannot meet your first child in a dusty doublet. Let’s get you changed,” his squire says cheerfully as he helps him undress and change into fresh clothes.
Harwin can hardly conjure a smile.
How can he meet his son having all but failed his mother? It does not matter that he is barred from their own bedchamber, for he is cowering outside it like a boy who has yet to wet his blade with first blood. A coward, in truth, afraid to do what is needed in his wife’s time of need. Fuck Alys, fuck the midwives, fuck what is proper, he should be in there with her!
“After you sent me off, I returned to fetch your armour. I thought I could get it polished to shining before you came back from seeing Ser Oswald,” Bentley babbles, oblivious to Harwin’s angry silence. “Imagine my surprise when I was met with all those scary midwives! Lady Alys gave me a right talking to, and told me not to tell you, but that would have gone against my vows as a squire, so I ran right to the River Gate. I didn’t stop once, ser. Promise.”
The lad likely deserves some praise for running the length of the city and for defying Alys, but he can scarcely muster the focus to worry about anything but Rhaenyra.
Bentley is a good lad, however. He doesn’t let Harwin’s taciturn demeanour get to him, and instead chatters away about how excited he is to meet the new babe—but surely not more excited than Harwin is—and how the realm will rejoice. Once he realises Harwin is answering in monotone with singular words, he switches to talking about his training. The mindless babble sinks into his mind and settles deep.
“Ser?”
Harwin startles at the new voice.
When he turns, he finds Ser Steffon at the doors. He was not guarding them when Harwin arrived, which means there has been a change of shift. He did not realise, lost in his miserable moping.
Harwin clears his throat and swallows the bile. “Yes, Steffon?”
His wife’s guard sends him an apologetic look. “I present Queen Alicent Hightower requesting an audience with you.”
Oh.
Alicent glides into the solar as if invited personally, an air of comfortability about her which Harwin mislikes. Any other day, any other time, and he might have listened to the voice of reason, but not today.
Bentley stares at the queen with wide, surprised eyes. She does not spare him a second glance, but Harwin knows the protocol. Harwin nods at his squire, who bows hastily and takes his leave quicker than when he arrived.
“Ser Harwin.” Alicent takes in the state of the room once they are alone, from the milk-stained floor to the unkempt surroundings. There are the small remnants of the beginning of Rhaenyra’s labour, the moments Harwin was regretfully absent for, and the moment he continues to be absent for. “Rhaenyra is in labour?”
As if to confirm her suspicions, Rhaenyra’s muffled bellow is heard through the doors. After a long, horrible moment, the room is quiet once more.
“Yes.” He has no courtesies left to gift her. He does not even have the strength to rise as her station demands.
“It is early,” Alicent says. Her tone is carefully blank. “Moons early, by my accounts.”
“Is it?” Harwin mutters, knowing full well what she is insinuating. Rhaenyra conceived before their wedding, it was only logical their babe would arrive early. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Alicent stares at him for a long moment before settling in a nearby divan, leaning back further than she would if she were not with child herself. He had forgotten she was also with child, her own belly not yet as large as Rhaenyra’s. He suspects she herself has a few moons remaining.
“How close are her pains?”
Harwin’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”
“Her pains, they come and go, do they not? How many minutes between?”
“I have not…” Harwin has not been counting. He should have been. Alys took the time to tell him, and Harwin has instead been lost in his own pity.
Alicent smiles, far kinder than she has been in a long while. “By my measure, it has been about a minute since her last. We should count together.”
Harwin and Alicent sit in silence for five minutes in total, and by the time Rhaenyra begins to scream once more, he is near tears with worry.
“It has progressed quickly,” Alicent says with mild surprise. Harwin cannot parse what she means, and thankfully she does not keep hom waiting.
“What does that mean?” Harwin asks, hopelessly lost. He should have questioned Alys more thoroughly when he could. Now, it is too late and he is proving nothing more than a dullard.
“New mothers tend to labour slowly,” Alicent explains. “It is as if the body must learn what to do since it’s the first time. My own took—” The queen has a far away look in her eye, likely remembering Aegon’s birth. “It was slow, the maesters said, but without fuss.”
Harwin hesitates to voice his concerns, and yet finds he must. “And Rhaenyra?”
“A fast birth can mean more risk,” she answers slowly. “The body learns quicker, but sometimes it cannot keep up…”
Her words mean little to Harwin who knows not Rhaenyra’s body like a maester would. He knows how to make her sing in pleasure, and nothing about this.
“And if she cannot—” He swallows bile, sick to his stomach. “If she cannot keep up?”
Alicent’s large eyes are sad. “You called your baseborn aunt from Harrenhal for a reason, did you not?” she says instead of answering. “Have faith in her, Ser Harwin. I am certain she will not allow anything to befall Rhaenyra.”
“She is talented,” Harwin says, wanting to believe. Needing to believe.
“I will pray as well,” Alicent assures him. “I will go to the sept after and light a candle for the Mother. She will protect Rhaenyra where we cannot.”
Yet the gods, both the new and the old, have been cruel to Harwin before.
“I thank you for your kind words, my queen,” Harwin chokes, pausing to close his eyes as another one of Rhaenyra’s agonising screams echoes through the solar, “but it is no balm to me, and will not until Rhaenyra is safe once more.”
“Not when your child is safe?” she asks with appraising eyes. Harwin wonders what she sees, or what she is seeking to see.
“I will love my child with my entire being.” Harwin breathes in. “But I do not value an unborn babe over Rhaenyra’s own life.”
The words sit heavy between them for a long, excruciating moment. Alicent’s sharp gaze remains trained on him, as if searching for his falsehood. She will not find it.
“Good,” she finally says, some of the sharp edges smoothed from her demeanour. “It pleases me to hear as much, ser. A woman’s life should always be paramount.”
Harwin has an inkling that they are no longer speaking of Rhaenyra.
Queen Alicent takes her leave not long after, once again promising him she will pray for the safe arrival of Rhaenyra’s babe. She pointedly does not claim the child will be a prince or a princess, for they both know the birth of a prince is detrimental to the position of her own son.
What she does not realise is that any child of Rhaenyra will push Aegon down the line of succession, be it a boy or a girl, for Harwin will not allow any daughter of his to be set aside by mere virtue of her birth.
Later, Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting visit for a time, but as all of them remaining in the Red Keep are not only childless but also unwed, they do not stay for long. In fact, the first pained cry from the bedchamber had Lady Ysabel go pale and sent Lady Elinda fleeing the solar.
Alysanne was more taciturn, although Harwin could see something else hiding behind her worried expression, something beyond that of the troubles of her princess. He would ask if it were any other time, but he does not have the capacity right now. Not with Rhaenyra struggling beyond his reach.
Night falls and Bentley returns. They pass the time by naming famed Kingsguard members and their feats, although it becomes more so Harwin correcting him when he gets the houses wrong than participating himself.
When dinner is served, he dines alone. He eats little, stomach rebelling at the idea while Rhaenyra suffers.
His mind continues to race. It has scarcely stopped since Bentley burst into the barracks, but now it is a whirlwind of worry. Has it been too long? How long does normal labour progress? Should there be more noise from the bedchamber?
Less noise?
As if promoted by his wordless thought, another visceral scream bursts free of the closed doors, from the chamber which contains their marriage bed, the same bed in which his wife now labours.
His breath hitches, heart in his throat. This one seems as if it goes on for longer and sounds more painful, but it could very well be his own imagination getting the better of him.
Try as he might, his mind wanders. It conjures terrible images of Rhaenyra in agony, soaked through with sweat and covered in blackened blood. Covered in nothing but a sable cloak, she cries out for him and for their son. She seeks reprieve, but he is barred from her, unable to help even though it is all he wants in this world.
The vision comes to him like a memory long forgotten, a malicious portent to remember. If so, he has been remiss in forgetting.
He is in tears when he realises the bedchamber is silent.
A short time later, the doors to the bedchamber open, and the midwives begin to file out, each holding armfuls of linens and blankets, most stained with blood and other fluids. None do so much as glance at Harwin as they depart the solar, none giving him a single hint as to what is happening inside.
“Ser Harwin?”
He jolts, head snapping towards the bedchamber. Maester Gerardys stands at the doors, his eyes tired and robes ruined, but his face is relaxed and his tone is calm.
He can hardly breathe. “Rhaenyra?”
“She is well,” the maester says warmly.
Harwin chokes back his tears. “And the babe?”
“Well, too.” Gerardys gestures to the bedchamber. “I must go fetch some milk of the poppy from the apothecary, but you should go in. And do not listen to your aunt, the princess has asked for you.”
The maester departs with a small bow, no other words spoken.
Harwin takes it as an invitation.
Septa Lily sits at Rhaenyra’s bedside, her apron covered in blood and fluids, but she is smiling.
Harwin’s shoulders relax.
“Take my seat, ser,” the septa says gently, rising from her place to usher Harwin forward.
It is not needed, for he could see nothing else since the moment he entered the room.
“Rhaenyra,” he breathes, eyes damp and heart racing. “Are you—?”
Well? It seems far too banal a word. He wants to know if she is happy, or if the labour took too much from her, or if she was better off without him in the room, and so many more questions, but he cannot force the words out from his choked throat.
“Come here,” Rhaenyra orders, her eyes tired and skin pallid, but her full lips are tilted into a gentle smile. “Meet your son.”
In her arms, wrapped in a fine, dragon-embroidered blanket, is the babe they have waited so long for, the prince whose existence is the very catalyst for Harwin’s life right now.
He has had nine moons to consider what the child may look like, if he might take after Rhaenyra and her Valyrian beauty, or if he might favour those of Harwin’s rougher blood.
He has wondered endlessly, yet in this moment, he finds it is the last of his concerns.
His son is small, or perhaps it is only because babes are small and Harwin is so large, but it seems as though he almost disappears in his mother’s arms. He is pink-cheeked and tacky from birth, swaddled in a warm blanket—with a cap of dark hair on the top of his perfect head.
“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra murmurs and looks to Harwin, for his approval or to inform, he does not know. He does not care. For her agony to bring their son into the world, he would give her anything.
“Prince Jacaerys Targaryen,” Harwin echoes, and brushes a hand over his son’s forred. “He is beautiful. Our Jacaerys. Jace.”
“Jace.” Rhaenyra fights her smile. “I wanted him to have his own name.”
Another man may have wished to name his own son in the tradition of his house. A Strong name, like Bywin or Osmund or Lyonel. Perhaps if he was not wedded to the crown princess, he may have had a son with his father’s name. He does not regret it, however. They could have a dozen more sons, and he would let Rhaenyra name them all.
“It is a good name,” Harwin replies, voice choked with untold emotion. His hands shake at his side, longing to reach out and touch, yet his fears run rampant.
Harwin is a knight, a man of strength made for violence even when it is wielded in protection. His hands have held Rhaenyra with love, but can he be gentle enough for a newborn? By the old gods, Jacaerys was cradled in his mother’s belly naught an hour before, and now Harwin is to hold him with his unworthy hands.
What if he is too rough, or his hands too dirty? What if Jacaerys begins to cry?
He is not certain he would survive it, yet his wife knows him too well.
“Do you want to hold him?” she asks, gaze knowing even through her exhaustion.
“Yes,” he replies, heart overfull to bursting even as he worries. “Yes, of course.”
“Lily?” Rhaenyra asks.
Septa Lily gestures to the seat by Rhaenyra’s bedside she recently vacated. “Sit,” she orders gently, waiting until he has obeyed before deftly transferring the babe from Rhaenyra’s arms to Harwin’s.
It is as if he has not lived until this very moment. Like he was drifting aimless through life, no tether, no direction. Guided by selfish desires and reckless behaviour, a life he cannot imagine now with this being cradled in his arms.
Jacaerys. Jace. His son.
Who begins to whine and cry in Harwin’s arms after only a moment. He panics until Alys clicks her tongue. She had been quiet until this moment, or perhaps Harwin simply did not have eyes for anything else but his wife and son.
“Would you like to try feeding him, Princess?”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra says, accepting Jacaerys back when Harwin returns him gently into her arms. “He didn’t fuss until now.”
“Some babes are quiet,” Lily says, assisting her in adjusting Jace’s positioning. She tugs Rhaenyra’s robe down, exposing her breasts. “Firstborns more often than not.”
“And some bellow louder than any other,” Alys laughs. “Harwin was lustier than his sisters by far. A right terror at the tit, this one.”
“Aunt,” he groans.
“What? It is true. It’s why you’re so large.”
“Alys, what if my milk doesn’t come in?” Rhaenyra asks, a frisson of worry lying beneath her tone. “What if he struggles to latch? What if I do it wrong?”
“You should have more faith in yourself,” Harwin counsels, squeezing her arm tighter.
“You will be fine,” Alys says firmly.
“Did Harwin’s mother have any problems?” Rhaenyra asks, her face falling when Alys hesitates to answer.
“I fed Harwin when his mother’s milk dried up,” Alys says quietly. “I was his wet nurse.”
“Oh. I didn’t think—“ Rhaenyra stutters, and her head swivels between Harwin and Alys. “Forgive me, but you do not seem old enough to have been Harwin’s wet nurse.”
“What a flatterer,” his aunt coos. “I was younger, yes, but certainly old enough. My own babe died in my womb so it was an honour to nourish my nephew.”
“My condolences,” Rhaenyra murmurs, cradling Jacaerys closer. He can imagine her thoughts clear as day, the very concept of losing their son a nightmare not worth thinking about.
“It was a very long time ago,” Alys says, brushing her concerns away like dust. “Now, shall we try to encourage your son to feed?”
Harwin watches closely. He adores the sight of his wife any time, but there is something even more radiant about her right now, nourishing their son at her own breast.
He is not for the new gods, but he believes it would be hard to find someone who does not think she is the vision of the Mother at this moment.
“Has he latched fine?” Alys asks, eyes sharp and appraising.
“Yes, but…” Rhaenyra winces, shoulders tense as she holds Jace to her breast. “It feels strange.”
“There are wet nurses in the Red Keep,” Lily offers warily, but Alys isn’t ready to let that lie.
“No. Feed your boy from your own breast, Rhaenyra,” Alys says promptly and without tact.
Septa Lily huffs. “Lady Alys—”
“But the maester said—” Rhaenyra starts.
“Pox on the maesters,” his aunt snaps. “Pox on any man who thinks he knows a woman’s body. Despite my past, know this: mother’s milk—your own milk—is best for the little prince. Milk and your skin, Princess.”
“Not unless it is hurting the mother,” Septa Lily mutters. Harwin understands, for he has butted heads with Alys more times than he can count and has rarely won.
“My mother fed me herself,” Rhaenyra says quietly. She strokes the hand not holding Jace over the downy brown cap on his head. “I screamed and cried whenever the wet nurse came for me. I would only accept my mother’s milk.”
“As clever as a babe as you are now,” Harwin murmurs, then lowers himself into the seat next to her. “But love, if you need a wet nurse, you should use one. Do not let Alys sway you.”
Alys makes a noise in the back of her throat, but Harwin ignores her for Rhaenyra is staring at him with all the love in the world, love Harwin never thought he would be allowed to receive.
He cannot tear his eyes away from them. His wife and his son—is it a dream he dared hope for only in his quietest, most pitiful moments. To have it be true, real and flesh and blood. Harwin ducks his head, eyes welling with tears.
“I wanted you here,” Rhaenyra confesses quietly, so hushed he doubts any but he can hear her. “I know it’s not the way it’s done, but I would have been comforted by your presence.”
Harwin exhales in a rush, crying in earnest now because it is all he wanted beyond her and Jace’s safety.
“Yes,” he says wetly, leaning in to press his forehead against her shoulder. “Yes, love. I will be there next time, I swear. If you wish for another, of course.”
Rhaenyra laughs, tired but pleased. “Perhaps ask me again in a month.”
Whatever she wishes. They could have the one babe, the future king of the Seven Kingdoms, and Harwin has enough kin to name as his heir to Harrenhal. The realm will not suffer if Rhaenyra chooses she is done with having children, and Harwin will be happy knowing she is safe.
“I love you,” he says softly, smiling through his tears. He presses a kiss to Jace’s forehead, his tiny face scrunching up, likely from Harwin’s scratchy beard. “And I love you, Jacaerys. Always.”